


Male Order

by jentacular



Category: Atlantis (UK TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Project Runway AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4617669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jentacular/pseuds/jentacular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pythagoras tried to keep the grimace off his face and hoped against hope that the cameras weren’t focusing on him, as Melas discussed their fabric budget and shopping constraints.  It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected the challenges to be…<i>challenging</i>.  Especially now, when it was down to the final six, when everyone was an edgy combination of talent and tiredness, and any error of judgment could be fatal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Male Order

**Author's Note:**

> Written to break writer's block. Also because these two are super-cute. Based entirely on a challenge in season 2 of Project Runway Australia.

“…and _that_ , designers, is your next challenge. To create a modern, flattering outfit for a male client.”

There were the usual gasps and groans from the group, though Cassandra at least seemed calm and unaffected. But then she’d told Pythagoras last night that she had a feeling the next challenge would be menswear.

Menswear – it wouldn’t be the _worst_ thing, Pythagoras thought. Clean strong lines, structure, precise tailoring…in fact, these played to his strengths, if anything. Maybe, he considered with a sudden surge of optimism, this challenge might turn out to be just what he needed, after the last runway fiasco. 

“– but that’s not all,” their mentor said. The sun caught his bald head, and next to Pythagoras, Medusa squinted then leaned up to whisper, “Wish I’d brought my sunglasses,” into his ear. 

“Design is a business, and – as with any business – people-skills are key.”

Pythagoras closed his eyes, already dreading the next words out of Melas’ mouth.

“And that is why it will be up to you not only to _find_ a suitable client, but to work _with_ that client to create a look that takes account of his likes and dislikes, while also remaining true to your own aesthetic. You will have two days to get runway-ready – and the sooner you convince a suitable candidate,” here Melas gestured at the people dotted around the park, chatting, relaxing, exercising, “the sooner you can get to work.” 

Pythagoras tried to keep the grimace off his face and hoped against hope that the cameras weren’t focusing on him, as Melas discussed their fabric budget and shopping constraints. It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected the challenges to be… _challenging_. Especially now, when it was down to the final six, when everyone was an edgy combination of talent and tiredness, and any error of judgment could be fatal. 

It was just, well, after what had happened last time, it felt _pointed_. Logically, he knew it wasn’t – the challenges had all been planned before filming even started, and he really didn’t think anyone was poring over the dailies and saying, “You know what we should do? We should make life as difficult as possible for that awkward blond designer in the corner.” 

Still, it couldn’t be denied that while clean strong lines, structure and precise tailoring were Pythagoras’ forte… _people_ were not. As their last challenge had definitively proven. He could still hear Pasiphae’s voice as she mused, “An upside-down triangle skirt. And, pray tell, just who do you imagine wearing this…garment?”

He’d turned to his model and – it was as if he had seen her for the first time. “I – suppose I got caught up in the technique.”

“And that,” Pasiphae had said, swooping onto his admission with the merciless, hawk-like demeanour that had probably made countless interns at her magazine cry, “is precisely your problem. Your work is all concept, and no reality. Impressive as your skill-set undoubtedly is,” (even this was said with a sort of disdain), “I don’t think you ever step back to consider the person in your clothes. Who are you designing _for_? What sort of woman do you see wearing your clothes?”

He hadn’t been able to answer. And now, _now_ he was expected to convince a complete stranger of his vision. Not only that – his client was supposed to help Pythagoras _create_ that vision. 

“Are you ready?” Melas intoned. Everyone tensed, and on Pythagoras’ other side, Jason (occasional construction issues redeemed by flashes of startling originality) maneuvered himself into standing start position.

“GO!”

They all took off, dispersing from the group like the blown seeds of a dandelion clock, only more frantic. Maybe more like the seeds of a dandelion clock in a force nine gale.

Pythagoras took a deep breath and aimed himself at a man talking on his mobile.

*****

Korinna (solid, workmanlike…probably not final three material) was the first to find her model, followed by Jason, who quickly located a tall, glasses-wearing guy who Pythagoras could definitely see wearing his designs. He still found the time to clap Pythagoras on the shoulder and say, “Good luck,” as he passed by, heading toward the car that would transport him and Korinna to purchase their fabric. Pythagoras mustered a smile, weak but genuine, because somehow, despite being incredibly naturally gifted in a way that lent itself to carelessness, prone to arguing with the judges and keeping everyone on the runway longer than necessary, and being flamboyantly heterosexual (his original aim in the competition had been to stick around long enough for the inevitable ‘ _designers, make a dress for our supermodel host, Ariadne_ ’ challenge), Jason was – well, someone Pythagoras considered an actual friend.

The rest of them were not as fortunate in locating pliant, willing-to-sacrifice-a-sunny-day-in-the-park-for-the-dubious-pleasure-of-hanging-around-a-sweaty-workroom clients. As Pythagoras got turned down by a bloke in a construction jacket, he could see Medea (terrifyingly brilliant, but mostly just terrifying) stalking past out of the corner of his eye. Cassandra seemed unphased (as always), having a conversation with some girl walking a dog. And Medusa was aiming that cheerful, face-stretching smile with blinding force in the direction of anyone with a y chromosome.

Somewhat indiscriminately, as it turned out, given the heavyset man who was hopefully sidling closer to her every time Pythagoras looked over.

Pythagoras himself got turned down by a further two men, one of whom was holding a Frisbee, and neither of whom demonstrated the slightest bit of interest in what he had to say, or in Pythagoras himself. “Sorry mate,” the one with the Frisbee said, cutting Pythagoras off mid-explanation. “Don’t care and not interested.” It was quite a neat, if depressing summation of not just his experience as a fashion designer…but his entire life as a gay man who happened to be called Pythagoras, really.

“– couldn’t help overhearing, and I was wondering if _I_ could be of service?” the heavyset man said to Medusa, with a kind of unctuous jocularity as Pythagoras turned back, eyes searching the general area for his next failure. 

Pythagoras pretended not to notice the dark haired guy to his extreme right. He was sitting under a tree, not really reading a book, and somehow managing to radiate attractiveness like an overpowering cologne. Pythagoras had a sinking feeling that the footage of his day would be incomplete without a thorough rejection from the dark-haired guy – like the humiliating cherry on top of an already horrible day. But for the moment, Pythagoras continued to ignore him, heroically fighting against the odds.

Medusa however succumbed to the inevitable, introducing herself and holding out a reluctant hand which was immediately engulfed by the heavyset man, who (if Pythagoras was hearing right as he rushed past), was called Hercules. 

And of course it turned out that Cassandra hadn’t been wasting her time as the dogwalking girl turned out to have a brother who was easily talked into a makeover – and so, it was just Pythagoras and Medea. And then just Pythagoras, as Medea finally convinced some bloke with a perpetually sneering mouth to sign up.

A middle-aged duck-feeder, two blokes desultorily having a kickaround, and a football to the gut later, and Pythagoras was starting to panic. He turned in a despairing circle, and said, almost to himself, “That’s right – just keep on ignoring the man being filmed by a camera crew. Nothing to see here at all.”

He ran a hand through his hair again (which had to be sticking up in unflattering just-been-electrocuted tufts by now), and then stumbled forward as someone decided to take him at his word, bumping in to him and then walking off without so much as an apology. 

“Does anyone speak Lithuanian?” he asked the camera crew. “I know that person down by the river didn’t speak any English, but – if I had a few basic words, I might be able to act out the challenge for him.”

No-one volunteered a previously-hidden talent for Baltic languages, and Pythagoras sighed.

“Hey!”

He turned and blinked as the dark-haired, attractive guy came sloping toward him on attractive feet, pausing midway to bend over and pick something up in his attractive fingers. “I think you dropped this,” he said, holding out a pen.

Pythagoras took it. “Thanks,” he managed to say. He’d had his suspicions, but up close, the attractiveness was only intensified by soulful dark eyes, and a warm smile. Everything about the guy seemed warm really – from tousled curly brown head to the fraying hemmed jeans that flopped over his sneakers. Approachable, in spite of the extreme handsomeness. It was as if he’d been carefully created according to some mathematical formula for maximum attractiveness. 

“It’s all right,” the guy said. Then, with another smile and a gesture at the cameras, “Looks like you’re under pressure.”

“Oh, right, yes,” Pythagoras said with a start. The guy was wearing a dark green t-shirt with a yellow van on the chest. It wasn’t a sophisticated look by any means, but it did draw attention to his tanned arms. “They’re um, they’re filming me,” Pythagoras said, internally wincing at this statement of the completely obvious. 

But the goodlooking guy nodded, melting eyes locked on Pythagoras’ as if he’d never heard anything so fascinating, and Pythagoras heard himself say, “It’s for a challenge. I’m a fashion designer, and I have to find someone who’ll agree to let me make an outfit for them – for free,” he stressed, “and then – model it in front of a panel of judges.”

He came to an abrupt halt, as he suddenly ran out of words. The guy nodded and said, encouragingly, “Sounds interesting.”

There was a long and awkward pause. _Say it_ , Pythagoras thought, _what’s the worst that could happen? Just – ask him, get rejected, dust off your palms and move on._

The guy shifted on his feet and said, finally, “Well…good luck.”

“Thanks,” Pythagoras managed again, as the guy turned away. Pythagoras’ fingers twitched, but it wasn’t until the muffled curse from the camera crew that he found himself galvanised into action, taking two halting steps after the guy and calling out, “Wait!”

The guy turned around, and Pythagoras found himself the focus of those warm eyes again. “I – don’t suppose that… _you_ …would be interested?” he heard himself say.

“Yeah, absolutely,” the guy said.

Pythagoras nodded. “Completely understandable. I’ll just” – he stopped. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘yes’?”

“Did you – not want me to?” the guy asked.

“No, no,” Pythagoras hastened to reassure him. “I just...that wasn’t the answer I was expecting.”

The guy shrugged. “Well, I’m a student. I think it’s probably against the law for me to turn down something that’s free.”

“Oh. Good. Good,” Pythagoras said. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, “You’re sure you’re available? We’re filming today and tomorrow.”

There as a brief pause before the guy held out his hand and said, “That’s fine with me. I’m Icarus, by the way.”

 _People-skills_ , Melas whispered reprovingly in Pythagoras’ ear. 

“Pythagoras,” he luckily remembered, as his palm slid against Icarus’.

There was another silence while they looked at each other, until Pythagoras blurted out, “I need to touch you now.”

Icarus’ eyebrows went up, and he hastily clarified, “For the – clothes. I have to take your measurements. If that’s all right…?”

“Fine,” Icarus said, and he stood obligingly still as Pythagoras got out his tape measure. As he wrapped it around Icarus’ bicep he tried to make some light conversation. _People-skills_. “So – what are you studying?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Icarus said, “I want to change it anyway.”

“Oh,” Pythagoras said, and that was his small-talk exhausted. He focused instead on jotting down chest and hip measurements – until it came time to measure Icarus’ inseam, at which point, on his knees in front of someone incredibly-out-of-Pythagoras’-league attractive, conversation became a dire necessity. 

“So,” he said, as Icarus obligingly spread his legs. “Um, this outfit is supposed to be about you as well – your needs and wants. Is there anything I should know about – some special occasion you need to be dressed up for…anyone you’re looking to impress?” Pythagoras tried to cast a purely professional eye on the dimensions of the crotch in front of him. 

“Actually yeah,” Icarus said. “There is someone.”

“Oh?” Well, that was…so expected Pythagoras didn’t even feel a pang. He noted the measurement and got to his feet.

“I wouldn’t mind impressing my father,” Icarus continued. He smiled at Pythagoras. “We’re supposed to have a dinner soon to discuss university and the stupidity of changing your mind about what you want to study when you’re already halfway through the course, Icarus.”

“Right,” Pythagoras took this in. “Well – that’s somewhere to start, I suppose. What sort of thing do you think would impress him?”

Icarus grimaced. “Off the top of my head…a diploma in a suitably esoteric field of study from an accredited university.”

Pythagoras considered this. “I’m all out of those, I’m afraid.” He turned on his tablet. “But…how about a suit instead?”

*****

He wasn’t expecting the scattered applause when he finally got into the workroom.

“Finally!” Jason called out. “We were starting to worry.”

“Well, I made it back. Eventually,” Pythagoras said, with a wince as he caught sight of the clock on the wall. Only three hours left. He unloaded his materials onto his table. Fifteen minutes to select and cut his fabric – there really hadn’t been much time for second guessing. Pythagoras was a methodical, painstaking person – he liked to think his designs through, considering them from every angle. Operating purely on instinct left him feeling unsettled. He frowned at his fabrics – grey tweed, jersey, white cotton and a denim – trying to decide whether he was satisfied with them or not. 

“So – who’d you get?” Jason asked. 

“Oh – a student. His name’s Icarus,” Pythagoras said. He began readying everything he needed for his toile. 

“Oooh - what’s he like?” Medusa asked. She had the table closest to his.

Pythagoras did his best to ignore the camera in front of him. “He seems…alright. He’s got good,” he found his hands gesturing vaguely, “-proportions.”

“Is that what we’re calling that these days?” Medusa grinned. “You’re lucky. Mine’s called Hercules and he’s nice and everything, but a bit…” she made a face, “Well, let’s just say he’s got a big personality.”

“He’s got a big everything, from what I could see,” Medea muttered. 

Pythagoras pushed all of his attention onto his design for the remaining time. It was ambitious, especially given his time constraints. But focus and time management weren’t ever problems he’d had, rather the opposite. Pythagoras had a tendency to become completely submerged in whatever project he was currently involved in – at times to his detriment, as the upside-down triangle skirt proved. It felt like only minutes had passed before Korinna was calling out, “Time to go home, everybody.”

Pythagoras straightened, back suddenly registering as sore. With a last glance at his worktable and dummy, he followed the others out. But before they could go home and collapse into fetal-positioned sleep, it was time to film some talking heads.

Pythagoras didn’t really mind the interviews – it was the whole almost-round-the-clock filming that was harder to adjust to, knowing he was constantly being watched. He’d known it would be, and he had considered it, the way he considered everything, giving it full and deliberate thought, ultimately deciding that it was worth it. At the same time, he was a private person, and it made him a bit uncomfortable to know that when everything had been filmed, someone was going to look at all this footage of him, and use it to create a story. 

Most likely a story titled, _The Awkward One in the Corner_ , but still.

He sat on the chair and recounted the experiences of the day, prompted by the questions that Lisa, one of the producers, asked.

“– so when we found out we were going outside I was really excited – I thought it might be an inspiration challenge, you know, looking at architecture, buildings, lines, angles – the possibilities are…” at Lisa’s look, Pythagoras hurriedly moved along, “ – but then we were told that we would have to convince a stranger to let us design menswear for him.”

“And how did that make you feel?” Lisa asked.

Pythagoras considered it. “ _Less_ excited.”

Then he had to recount how he’d met his client, “-a bit strange, really, because he approached me. Well, I don’t mean he came up to me and begged me to design for him or anything. That would’ve been a bit weird. But I dropped a pencil, and he picked it up and gave it back to me, and I hadn’t asked him yet, and it seemed as good a time as any, so” –

“Why hadn’t you asked him?” Lisa asked.

Pythagoras blinked at her in confusion.

“You said you hadn’t asked him yet, so – why not? Is there something wrong with him?”

“What? No. Icarus is – he’s perfect,” Pythagoras said, and flushed. He just knew that that quote was going to be used in the show. Lisa raised her eyebrows, and he searched for a non-embarrassing way to say that Icarus was insanely hot and therefore not likely to be in need of the services of any gawky fashion designers. “It’s just – um, well, being a designer is like anything, really. You have to set realistic goals. You don’t want to over-reach yourself, you know?”

It was possible, Pythagoras thought, that he could have netted a Hercules for this challenge. He’d been anticipating a Hercules. That he had somehow managed to secure Icarus instead was a kind of statistical anomaly that had thrown the whole system out of whack. 

“Actually, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lisa said, but she moved on. “Why do you think he picked you when he turned down Medea?”

Pythagoras frowned. “He did?”

Lisa nodded. “Told her he was busy and couldn’t commit to filming.”

“Oh. Well,” Pythagoras tried to affect an air of confidence, “I probably won him over with my fashion forward designs.” He paused. “Also – Medea is terrifying.”

This led neatly on to, “- actually ended up changing my design completely.” The sober suit he’d sketched for Icarus had vanished as soon as he’d entered the fabric shop and found himself steering away from the dark worsted wools.

“Why?”

Pythagoras blew out a long breath. “It just…didn’t seem to fit. I kept thinking about Icarus – about my client – and my original design…it wasn’t him.” It was difficult to explain. Usually his inspiration was rooted in the cerebral – finding an innovative way to utilise a particular material, the challenge of managing the constant flux between 2D and 3D, the everpresent geometry of lines and angles and how they might react on a general human body. To begin with a living, breathing muse was new, unexplored territory for him. “What I make has to be _different_ than what I usually do. I want to make something…”

_Real. Wearable. Flattering._

“Yes?” Lisa prompted.

He thought about Icarus, his warm eyes and easy smile. “Touchable,” he said.

*****

“Do you think you’ll be able to get everything done?” Jason asked as they made their way back to the apartments.

“I should,” Pythagoras said. “Once I sew faster than I’ve ever sewn before in my life…and there are no issues during tomorrow’s fitting…and provided Melas doesn’t spring any last minute surprises on us.”

“So…no, then?” Jason said with a grin.

“No,” Pythagoras agreed.

“Still – four pieces…are you sure you need to go to that much trouble?”

“I just want to…design something that makes someone else happy,” Pythagoras said.

“Is this because of what Pasiphae said last time? About designing for real people?” He touched Pythagoras’ shoulder. “You shouldn’t let her get to you, mate. Seriously. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

From behind them, Medea snorted. “Oh yes, the woman holding the post of fashion editor at one of the most prestigious magazines in the world is giving us invalid critiques. Explain to me how that works again?”

“I’m not saying she doesn’t sometimes raise some good points,” Jason said, as Medea squeezed between him and Pythagoras, the better to continue the argument, “but she’s not exactly what I’d call supportive, is she?”

“I wasn’t aware that handholding was part of her job description,” Medea said, with an arch rise of her eyebrows. Her respect for Pasiphae bordered on hero-worship.

“It’s not, but…you don’t have to demolish someone when you critique them. I mean – look at Ariadne” –

Medea rolled her eyes. And, all right, Pythagoras could admit that Jason’s thing for Ariadne was bordering on the ridiculous at this stage, but Ariadne _did_ somehow manage to strike a diplomatic balance between honesty and reducing designers to puddles of tearful despair on the runway. 

“Thanks, but I think I’ll take Pasiphae – at least I know her respect is worth something,” Medea said, as they finally reached the doors to the apartments.

“Yeah – but is it lasting?” Jason countered. “I have the feeling that as soon as you make the slightest mistake, you’re dead to her.”

“Well, I’ll just have to make sure I don’t make any mistakes, then, won’t I?” Medea said, slipping inside. Given how well Pasiphae had reacted so far to Medea’s dramatic aesthetic, Pythagoras supposed she stood the best chance of anyone of staying in Pasiphae’s good graces. 

Jason shook his head as he watched her stride down the corridor. “I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as that,” he said. “Everyone has a bad day eventually. And she’s in for a shock if she thinks Pasiphae’s got her back.”

“I don’t see why you’d care, considering how she backstabbed you during the team challenge,” Pythagoras said absently, mind already preoccupied with thoughts of bed and sleep.

“I don’t care,” Jason said, though the frown stayed on his face. “Just…I don’t know.”

Pythagoras yawned, and Jason shook off whatever was bothering him and grinned. “See you way too early tomorrow morning?”


End file.
